


Moriarty/Moran Prompt Fics

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Affection, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Aromantic Character, Asexual Character, Conversations, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dancing, Domestic Fluff, Drunk Texting, Drunkenness, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Kissing, Love, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prompt Fic, Queerplatonic love, Soulmates, Stargazing, Theft, University, Victorian setting, physical violence, sleeping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-10-08 13:59:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10388241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: Fics written about Moriarty/Moran (Victorian or modern day AU) based on prompts selected by other people from a list of OTP prompts.Prompts written so far:"I love you" textsRealizing they want to grow old together + Forehead kisses + Soft kissesBeing protective of each otherDriving/walking to school together + Waiting for each other after class + Kisses on the cheekDancing TogetherStargazingSleeping in their lover's clothesRealizing they’re in loveBeing their soul mateAlso I've written 'Making Love For the First Time' as a separate fic





	1. "I love you" texts

**Author's Note:**

> list of prompts at  
> http://tiger-moran.tumblr.com/post/158407993636/taking-moriartymoran-fic-requests
> 
> -
> 
> "I love you" texts requested by carmilla-ashworth.

Moriarty has really come to hate the person who invented mobile phones, particularly whoever invented mobile phones with the capacity to take and send photos. Certainly the things have their uses but they are also a source of great irritation to him, often more so when Moran is away.

Moran can be relied upon absolutely to carry out a task Moriarty assigns to him, even when this involves him travelling away somewhere and spending a night or two away from home. Some people, particularly those with certain prejudices, might think that Moran staying away for the night bothered Moriarty because he didn't trust his lover not to sleep with someone else while he was away. This is however not an issue for the professor, who trusts Moran completely on this matter. What does bother him is the fact that every time Moran stays away and has a drink (or several) whilst away then the next morning Moriarty will find several dozen text messages from him on his phone, and often rambling voice messages also. This morning is apparently no exception to this.

There are quite a few along the lines of _I miss u_ and _wish u'd come w me next time_

Interspersed, likely as even more alcohol was consumed, with the likes of:

_sum asshole just peed on my shoes_

_ON MY FUCKING SHOES_

_fucks sake_

and then there is

_hey I want 2 show u sumthing lemme take a pic_

_its not my dick btw_

_in case u thought I meant dick pics_

_u probably didnt_

_im sorry_

_look at this fuckin awesome dog!_

Moriarty finds that Moran has sent him twelve different photos, most of them blurry, of the dog in question. He fails to fully comprehend what is so 'fuckin awesome' about it, although the selfie of Moran and the dog does raise a small smile from him.

_Look he has markings like another dog on his butt!_

Ah, that would perhaps explain what is so fascinating about the creature then, and the close up pictures of what is presumably the area in question. Moriarty supposes the smudgy-looking darker marking _does_ look like another dog, if one squints.

 _Hey I saw these earlier_ _and thought of u_

A photograph of two pigeons, apparently taken in the town centre. Another photo showing a great many more pigeons flocking around someone sitting on a bench.

There is also a voice message. _“Hey, it's me again, I miss you. I mean not that I can't take care of myself or anything, it'd just... it'd be nice sometimes if you came away with me, we could make a weekend of it, you know, Professor? Go to a gallery, go see those pigeons too if we must. They have nice beds here, comfy. We could, you know...”_ Laughter. _“We could do whatever you want, whatever you, ah – shit, I'm so drunk. I can't find the fuckin' light switch.”_ More laughter, following by some banging and thudding noises, with cursing in the background. _“I'm all right_ ,” Moran's voice says a moment later. _“Shit.”_ More laughter. “ _I fell into the bath. I'm okay. Um, I think we probably owe them a new shower curtain now.”_ Laughter. _“Also a new toilet seat.”_

Which provides some explanation for the _I think I broke the toilet seat last night_ text. Also the _and pulled down the shower curtain sumhow_ one.

What seems harder to explain is the last message. If it had been sent last night while Moran was drunk, Moriarty might understand that, but it was clearly sent this morning. He must have been more sober then although, maybe, he was hungover enough still to have let go of some of his inhibitions; perhaps he typed out and sent the message without consciously thinking about it.

 _I'll b leaving soon, c u later_ , reads the second to last message.

The very last message says: _love u_

Surprised by this admission, however it was made, Moriarty looks up from the phone's screen, and smiles warmly.

 


	2. Realizing they want to grow old together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Realizing they want to grow old together + Forehead kisses + Soft kisses requested by carmilla-ashworth

Moran is in a most undignified position, lying on his back on the sofa with his head hanging over the edge, when he speaks next. “Professor, do you ever think about the future?”

Moriarty glances up from his book, seeing Moran regarding him still from this strange upside-down pose. “Anything about it in particular?”

“I mean... have you any particular thoughts about what you'll do when you're old?”

“Something like retiring to the countryside to keep chickens, perhaps?” Moriarty queries with a smile.

Moran grins. “Something like that.”

“I had not given it a great deal of thought, no.”

Moran sits up abruptly, swinging his legs around to place his feet back on the floor. “You're surely not planning to keep up all this criminal activity forever though.” He studies the professor's face for a moment – the slightly receding hairline, the grey creeping into his hair, the lines upon his skin. The professor is by no means an old man (and Moran knows better than most the physical strength that Moriarty still possesses) but he is no longer a young one either.

“Perhaps I had never thought about getting old,” Moriarty remarks. “Surely you, as a former army man, know about that.”

Moran nods. “That were true, out in Afghanistan; in India too. No sense in planning too far ahead when you never knew if you'd make it through the next day alive, although I don't know as I was ever too fond of the idea of goin' out in a blaze of glory like some of the men were. But...”

Moriarty sets down his book. Removing his reading glasses, he rubs the bridge of his nose where the spectacles pinch slightly. “But?” he says, looking across at Moran again.

“That was war. That were a different life, before I had... before... before there was, well, a bigger reason for me to _want_ to make it through the next day alive, something more than my own selfish survival instinct, I mean. Back then I'd never thought about growing old – even if I didn't _want_ to end my life that way, I still reckoned I'd die on some foreign soil long before old age came over me - but now...” He meets Moriarty's gaze for a second or two before clearing his throat slightly. “Anyway, you've not been to war and I can't see as being a mathematics professor is all that dangerous, so why'd you give so little thought to your future?”

“Perhaps it is _because_ I am a mathematics professor that I am keenly aware of how chaotic things may be,” Moriarty says. “Factors may come into play that one cannot account for; the smallest elements may have the most far-reaching impact. One simply cannot predict how the future will play out.”

“So you will make no plans for it then?”

“I did not say that. Perhaps though I have been obliged to revise any previous plans I had in order to incorporate a new factor that came into play in recent times.”

“What new factor?” Moran looks up at the professor, somewhat perplexed, as Moriarty stands up and strolls towards him.

“You cannot guess?” Moriarty sits beside Moran, who twists sideways slightly to face him. Lifting his hand to Moran's cheek, the professor turns Moran's face towards his and kisses him on the forehead. “You, chick.” He tilts his own head downwards slightly, so that their foreheads now touch. “Although perhaps I am being presumptuous. Perhaps you will lose interest in me when I am old.” He says this airily, as if the response would matter little to him either way, but the way he does not look Moran in the eyes as he says this suggests that the response truly matters to him very much.

Moran laughs. “Never,” he scoffs.

“What if I grow fat, or bald?”

“I like people with a bit of padding on 'em, and they say baldness is a sign of virility.”

 “And what if I did wish to retire quietly somewhere?” Moriarty enquires. “Surely the quiet life would not suit a man like yourself? You seem to positively thrive on danger.”

“Maybe even I'll yearn for the quiet life when I'm old,” Moran says. “Although I reckon you'll always be dangerous enough to keep me interested.” He twists his head around slightly, enough to be able to press a soft, brief kiss to Moriarty's lips. He lifts his hand, sliding it around to gently cradle the back of the professor's head, leaving the touch light enough for Moriarty to be aware that he can withdraw at any time without Moran taking offence; to let him know he is under no obligation to endure any physical contact beyond that which he is comfortable with.

But Moriarty only places another soft kiss on Moran's lips – a kiss sweet and light but laden with affection for his companion. “Perhaps we _might_ consider raising chickens,” he says with a smile.

“If you like.”

“And pigeons?” Moriarty does draw back slightly now, but only so that he may watch Moran's reaction at the mention of the creatures the colonel tends to prefer to refer to as 'flying rats'.

“I...” Moran hesitates, before he laughs again. “And pigeons,” he says.

 


	3. Being Protective of Each Other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being protective of each other requested by fabricdragondesigns 
> 
> (Additional notes: "I would actually love to see the role reversal where tiger is in need of protection.... and people expect the professor is either unable or unwilling to do anything.")

“ _Colonel_ Moran _,_ ” Colonel Moriarty says scathingly, giving Moran a withering look from head to toe and back up again. “They really must have been desperate if they had to make _you_ a colonel.”

Moran looks back at him with equal contempt. The man looks enough like his brother the Professor to make hating him so a tad unnerving, but Colonel Moriarty's hair is thinner on top and far more shot through with grey; his face has a slightly alcoholic flush to it and there is a look of coldness and cruelty in his eyes that Moran has never seen even in the Professor's. “As if I'd care about the opinions of a man who had to _buy_ his way into the army.” He is about to turn away when Colonel Moriarty calls after him.

“Better than _fucking_ my way into my position.”

Moran spins about and glares at him, his fist clenching by his sides.

“Oh we all knew about your filthy proclivities, Moran.” Colonel Moriarty brushes a speck of imaginary dust off his jacket whilst darting a glance up at Moran. “Probably half of India did. That's probably the only reason you managed to escape being cashiered out, because someone else of your kind took pity on you.” He glances across at the Professor. “It astonishes me that you would even think to bring this _reprobate_ here.”

The Professor gives his older brother a smile cold as ice and bitter as strychnine. “Dearest James, how else was I to make spending even an hour in your company the slightest bit tolerable without my companion?”

 Colonel Moriarty transfers his venomous look from Moran to the Professor. “Your companion,” he sneers. “Some bloody invert who even the Indians didn't want, and it's not as if they exactly have high standards over there.”

The Professor can practically sense Moran's tension beside him, even without looking at him. Too much more of his brother's stirring and Moran is going to snap before they even get close to making it to dinner, which is hardly how Moriarty wishes this weekend at his mother's house to begin.

“And where was he at Kandahar, hmm?” Colonel Moriarty continues. “Have you ever asked him what he _really_ did there? Oh I've heard he was there but never what he actually _did_. How do you know you have not taken lodgings with a coward?”

Moran springs forward, fury on his face, but before he can get to Colonel Moriarty, the Professor pushes him back with one hand, using the other to seize his older brother by the arm. He takes full advantage of the fact that the Colonel has fallen into his old habits of grossly underestimating his younger brother both because he _is_ younger and because of his more studious, scholarly nature – that and the fact that Colonel Moriarty is an incipient alcoholic whose reflexes are already impaired. Sharply he twists the Colonel's arm behind his back and forces him down, pressing a knee into his brother's back to pin him there even more firmly, causing the Colonel to emit a pained grunt.

“Have you forgotten, dear brother of mine, how mercilessly you used to tease poor Jamie?” the Professor hisses into the Colonel's ear. “How you tormented him, and bullied him?”

“Get the hell off me!” Colonel Moriarty spits.

But the Professor only drives his knee more sharply into his brother's back, shoving him even further down into the gravel. “Do you not remember, James, how I reacted to that, hmm? And yet _still_ you assume I will passively endure your vile diatribe against my companion. Let me remind you, I will not.” He jabs his knee into Colonel Moriarty's back again as he looks up at Moran, who looks as surprised as Colonel Moriarty, although infinitely more amused. “Now, we are all here because Mama invited us. Can we not all at least be civil to each other?” Another wrench of his brother's arm, resulting in a pained gasp, punctuates his words, before he casually discards the Colonel into the gravel and dust. “Come, Moran,” he says, beginning to walk away. Even before has taken a few paces though, his brother is on his feet and charging after him, if anything his rage exacerbated by his humiliation by the Professor in front of Moran.

“Come back here you bloody-” he is saying as he takes a swing at the Professor's head.

But Professor Moriarty ducks neatly, pivots and drives a fist into his brother's chest, smartly knocking him down flat onto his back in the gravel where he lies, utterly winded.

“Jesus.” Moran eyes Colonel Moriarty lying there wheezing and temporarily helpless, and laughs.

“Come along, Sebastian,” the Professor says, offering his arm to Moran.

“That was quite a punch, Professor,” Moran tells him, linking his arm through Moriarty's.

The Professor allows himself a small smile. “I used to box, remember. Perhaps my brother would do well to remember that too before he opens his mouth to insult you again.”

“Why'd you stop me from hitting him though?” Moran enquires. “I can stand up for myself, you don't need to protect my honour.”

“Because he would gladly have you arrested if you did strike him,” Moriarty replies. “He would not dare have his own brother arrested however. However much he despises me, the family name is far too precious to him for that. Furthermore, mama would not approve of my guest striking my brother, and my mother is far more formidable than my cowardly bully of an elder brother.” Round the corner of the house, close to the edge of the little apple orchard, Moriarty draws them to a halt. They are out of sight of Colonel Moriarty now and the Professor is certain that his brother will not follow them again, preferring to slink away with his tail between his legs like a whipped dog until dinner time once he regains his breath. “Besides...” Moriarty pats Moran's hand. “You are not an entirely honourable man, Moran. In fact in some ways you _are_ thoroughly disreputable, even, perhaps, somewhat...” He drops his voice to a whisper as he leans in closer to Moran's ear. “ _Depraved_.” He grins, and Moran, though he cannot quite see Moriarty's face now, can hear the amusement in his tone. “But what honour you do still have, my dove, I will protect.”

In the shade of an old apple tree, Moran turns to face Moriarty, standing close enough to him for any observer to think their behaviour already suspicious. This then they would no doubt think positively scandalous, as he leans forward to place a soft kiss upon the Professor's cheek. Although in fact only a ginger cat basking in the sunlight on the garden wall even notices them here and pays no heed to what they do. “Thank you,” he says.

 


	4. 'Driving/walking to school together' and 'Waiting for each other after class'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Driving/walking to school together' and 'Waiting for each other after class' requested by anon  
> Also featuring 'kisses on the cheek' requested by carmilla-ashworth
> 
> Modern day AU

Moriarty wonders sometimes how he became drawn into this connubial routine, having gone from living quite happily alone and never being troubled by the thought that he was 'missing out' somehow, to permanently sharing his life, his house and his bed even with another man. Not to mention sharing the car, although this one is less by choice and more due to the Jaguar's seeming hatred of cold weather and the Professor's aversion to driving a vehicle filled with electronics and which likes to issue warning bleeps over every little thing. His vintage Jaguar therefore remains snug in its garage with the threat of being scrapped and replaced hanging over it whilst Moran is obliged to drive the Professor to work in his far more modern car, one which has indeed just pinged at them.

“What does that mean?” Moriarty queries.

“Low temperature outside,” Moran replies.

“Is it vitally important for a car to ping at you to tell you that?”

“Maybe if there's ice on the road.”

“Does it also have sensors for detecting ice?”

Moran shrugs slightly. “Probably.”

Moriarty turns his head to glance out of the window. “I don't know how you can stand to drive a vehicle that is more computer chips than mechanical parts.”

“Maybe I stand it cos I actually like having a car that works for more than three days at a time.” Pulling up at a zebra crossing to allow several schoolchildren to cross over, Moran glances at the Professor and grins. “Face it, Professor, the Jag's beautiful but for half the year that's _all_ it is. Winter comes and it breaks down again every other day.”

“You hate cold weather also,” Moriarty points out.

“True, but I'm beautiful _and_ I have many other talents.” Moran's grin becomes perhaps a tad more salacious as he drives the car forward again.

Moriarty laughs. “I would have said more handsome than beautiful.”

“That and all.”

The Professor sits and regards his companion for a moment, reflecting again upon how close he has become to Moran. With most people being in close proximity to them rapidly becomes awkward, even stifling, but with Moran even the moments of silence between them feel comfortable.

“You should get me a chauffeur's hat if I'm gonna do this regularly,” Moran says. “Maybe the whole uniform.” He grins again as he turns the car in through the open gates of the university campus. “I'll pick you up this afternoon then, yeah?” he says as he pulls up outside the main building.

“Around quarter past five,” Moriarty says, opening the passenger door. He sits there for a moment with his hand still on the handle though, regarding Moran. “Thank you for bringing me.”

“You're welcome.” Moran continues to look back at him, smiling slightly.

“Was there something else you wanted?”

“Wouldn't mind a kiss goodbye.”

Moriarty pauses. “Here?” The Professor is hardly the prudish virgin that many assume him to be, but still he is not a man used to engaging in acts of affection in public.

“I weren't suggesting we have sex on the bonnet of the car. Just a kiss on the cheek.” Moran puts his hand on Moriarty's, squeezing it. “Only if you want to, I mean.”

Moriarty gives a little sigh of mock exasperation as he leans over and plants a kiss on Moran's cheek. He feels the edge of Moran's beard tickle his lips before he draws back – a slightly odd but not unpleasant sensation. “I'll see you later then,” he says, stepping out of the car carrying his black leather satchel.

“Professor!” Moran calls after him before Moriarty closes the door. He nods towards the back seat as Moriarty ducks his head back into the car. “Don't forget your packed lunch.” He stretches his arm back and snags the small picnic hamper off the back seat.

Moriarty smiles as he accepts the basket from Moran. “Whatever would I do without you,” he says.

 

~

Moriarty's last class of the day finishes at four but he spends some time discussing the subjects of his last lecture with three of his students. After this he makes a short visit to the library to return some books and take out some others, finding himself caught up making idle small-talk for a time with a clearly very bored library assistant. It is just after five thirty when he goes outside and finds Moran sitting on the bonnet of the car, bundled up in his coat and scarf against the encroaching bitter cold of a winter evening and smoking a cigarette.

“You know you're not supposed to smoke here,” Moriarty chides, although not entirely seriously. What is a minor act of rule-breaking to a man who has arranged murders and bank robberies? Still, he has to work with these people at the university so it is best to keep on good terms with them where possible.

“Yeah, that campus security guy told me that an' all,” Moran says, taking another pull on his cigarette. “He let me off though when I let him have one of 'em. Nice chap.” He slides off the bonnet and saunters over towards the Professor. “Let me 'elp you with those.” Holding the cigarette in his mouth, he gestures towards the stack of books.

Moriarty allows Moran to take the entire pile from him, watching Moran stride confidently over the increasingly slippery tarmac of the car park in his battered old combat boots. The books, the now-empty picnic hamper and Moriarty's satchel are all deposited in the boot before Moran opens the passenger side door for him.

“Your carriage awaits, sir,” he says with a grin.

After getting into the car, Moriarty watches Moran standing in the pool of light from one of the car park lamps. His lover, though in reality rather lean, looks far bulkier in his coat, standing there hunched against the cold as he takes a last draw on his cigarette. Dropping it to the damp ground, he grinds it under the toe of his boot. Aware though of where he is, he stoops and carefully picks up the mangled stub and tosses it into the bin before opening the driver's side door. As he climbs into the driver's seat, he brings with him the smell of cold air and cigarette smoke which mingles with the faint aroma of the leather of the car's seats.

“Had a good day then?” he enquires as he starts the car.

“Decent enough.” Moriarty does not elaborate further on his day at the university, knowing that Moran would pretend to be interested if he did but that he doesn't truly care about the academic side of Moriarty's life. Being forced to go to various prestigious academic institutes instilled in Moran only a deep loathing of such places and the Professor has no wish to remind Moran of his unhappy schooldays. More importantly though perhaps Moriarty knows that he doesn't _have_ to fill the space between them with pointless chit-chat. “And your day?” he queries as they pull out of the campus. “It was profitable, was it?”

Moran smirks. “Yeah, very profitable.”

Moriarty smiles. He dislikes talking business in the car, it seeming to be far from the proper place for it, so a full rundown of Moran's activities – enacted on the Professor's behalf, of course - during the day can wait until later. But it is pleasing to know that the outcome was satisfactory.

As they pause at a red light, Moriarty slips his hand over to rest upon Moran's knee, squeezing it very gently.

Moran glances across at him, swallowing thickly as Moriarty slides his hand further up his lover's thigh. “You shouldn't distract me when I'm in the car,” he says, his tone mild, without the slightest trace of real rebuke. If anything it sounds like an invitation for Moriarty to try harder. “I might crash.”

“You are not so easily distracted as that,” Moriarty remarks nonchalantly, noticeably failing to remove his hand even as the traffic light turns green and they resume their journey. “You are a consummate professional.” Several more seconds pass before he sits back in his seat again, settling his hands into his lap. It is always intriguing to see how Moran responds to his touch, or to words of praise, he thinks - amusing and also endearing. Even though it is relatively dark inside the car, illuminated only in flashes as they pass under street-lamps or past brightly lit shop signs, he is sure Moran has blushed, just a little. Things like that, and simply Moran's companionship, make what would have otherwise been a mediocre journey home on a dreary winter's evening far more interesting. Perhaps, he decides, he will continue to refuse to replace the Jaguar with another car after all.

 


	5. Dancing Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dancing Together requested by calamityisalve

The light from inside the house extends beyond the open doorways, spilling out onto the beautifully manicured lawn. Beyond this corona though lie shadows punctured by coloured lanterns strung between the trees.

Moran sits on a stone bench near the treeline and glances back towards the house. Inside there is music and merriment, even with the party winding down. Still the band plays on and the music filters out along with the occasional burst of laughter. At least somebody is having a good time, he supposes.

This is not his sort of gathering, nor is it the Professor's in truth, but at least Moriarty seems to have been embraced by the hosts and other party-goers. Perhaps it is his charm or perhaps it is the fact that he is unmarried coupled with the rumours that he is secretly very wealthy; either way he seems to be quite in demand tonight amongst the ladies. Although the Colonel himself is by no means unpopular with the ladies, Moran could only endure seeing his lover dance with so many women before he had to retreat to the garden.

He sits and swigs from his silver hip flask, wishing the ball would finally end so that they can both go home. Social events such as this are not for him, making him achingly aware both of his sense of not belonging and also of how painfully rigid and limited polite society is in its thinking. Were it not for the Professor wishing to come here to ingratiate himself with a particular person he no doubt shortly intends to take full advantage of, Moran would not have even dreamt of coming here.

He is caught up in his own bitter thoughts, resentful of the people who can dance together in the house without fear, without censure, when a figure approaches him.

“May I have this next dance?” the Professor asks, holding out his hand to the Colonel.

Moran looks up at him sharply. “Haven't you had enough dancing with all your admirers?” he enquires, slipping his flask back into his pocket.

“Jealousy is unbecoming on you, Sebastian.” Moriarty resolutely still holds his hand out until Moran finally takes it. He pulls Moran to his feet, clasping his fingers through Moran's, sliding his other arm around the Colonel's waist to draw him into the dance.

Moran meets his gaze for a moment before lowering his eyes slightly. “People will think us scandalous,” he says, letting the Professor lead, dancing with him under the trees to the accompaniment of the music that emanates from inside the ballroom.

“Let them be scandalised.” Moriarty leans in slightly and flashes him a sly smile. “Most of them are far too drunk to notice anyway.”

Moran lifts his gaze again, looking into the Professor's face. Male evening dress is so limited also, so monochromatic, yet far from making Moriarty seem austere, somehow the black and white ensemble and the severely slicked down hair suit him. It is doubtful whether many people besides Moran would generally consider Moriarty to be handsome, but he is certainly immensely striking attired like this. It does not surprise Moran at all that the Professor has been in such demand as a dancing partner. Here too, in the flickering shadows where light and dark collide, what might have seemed harsh elsewhere appears softer. The look in Moriarty's blue-grey eyes is one of amusement and warmth as he regards his companion.

They move together as one, their eyes meeting, their hands and bodies connecting, and as they dance all of Moran's resentment and jealousy and insecurities melt away, just for a little while. There is only the two of them and the music. Nothing else matters.

 


	6. Stargazing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stargazing requested by calamityisalve

Moran peers up at the sky, at the inky blue-blackness pricked with stars. “It's absurd. None of those things look anything like anything.”

Beside him, Moriarty glances across at him. “It is human nature to try to impose structure on everything, to see familiar images where there is really only a random collection of things.”

Moran laughs. “I don't see no 'familiar images'. They're just stars.”

“You're approaching matters from a different perspective.”

Lying on the picnic blanket on the grass, Moran rolls over onto his side to face Moriarty. The Professor, he thinks, is must more interesting to look at than any star. “Why'd you care anyway? About constellations and that? It's hardly logical.”

Looking up at the sky, Moriarty shrugs slightly. “Perhaps it simply interests me how odd human beings can be, assigning names and characteristics to stars.” He points up at the sky. “Up there, for instance, is Perseus.”

Moran attempts half-heartedly to follow the direction Moriarty's first finger points to. “Weren't he the one who rescued some naked woman from a rock?” he queries.

Moriarty stares at him momentarily, raising an eyebrow. “All those myths and the only part you seem to remember is the part with the naked woman?”

Moran laughs. “Greek mythology ain't my forte, sir, but it has its moments.”

Moriarty sighs with feigned irritation. “Yes, Perseus rescued Andromeda who was chained to a rock, supposedly naked. And that is the constellation Perseus, and that bright star is Beta Persei, known as Algol. Some call it the Demon Star. It has long been considered to be unlucky and associated with violence across many cultures.”

Moran squints up into the sky. “It's just a star.”

“Indeed, but it is fascinating, is it not, how humans can attribute occurrences on Earth or even their own latent dark desires and urges to the actions of a star?”

“I suppose so.” Moran snuggles a little closer to Moriarty's side. “Why blame yourself when you can blame it all on a ball of gas instead.” He chuckles.

“Algol has also recently been found to be an eclipsing binary,” Moriarty tells him, sliding his arm around Moran.

“And what exactly is an eclipsing binary?”

“One star which is in reality a binary star - essentially two stars, very close together, almost locked together, one might say, with one orbiting the other, so that periodically one eclipses the other. To the distant observer they appear indistinguishable from each other, only the variability of the star's brightness hinting at what is really occurring.”

Cuddled up against the Professor's side, his face against Moriarty's neck, Moran ponders this information for a few seconds. It almost sounds like some type of metaphor for their relationship – the two of them bound together, their work and their private lives intertwined, with the Professor forming the centre around which Moran's life orbits, where Moran works hard for Moriarty but his name, his life, his work will probably be forgotten long before the Professor is. Moriarty's name will likely eternally eclipse Moran's, whether he is remembered as some brilliant but sometimes inscrutable mathematician or as a criminal genius.

Moran cannot quite keep back a yawn. “Sounds interesting,” he says, closing his eyes.

Moriarty looks down at him with a fond smile as he catches hold of the spare picnic blanket and draws it over them, wrapping them in warmth, a barrier against the increasing cool of the night. In a little while they will go inside and warm up properly but he would like to remain here looking up at the stars for just a little longer.

Moran seems almost asleep, a contented smile on his face, although he is still awake and still considering that parallel between them and this 'Demon Star'. He doesn't mind that, that Moriarty will always eclipse him. He knows his place and knows moreover that he is safe and valued and cared for in it. He was an honourable soldier once, given medals and mentions in despatches, but that was his old life, before the Professor. This life is a better one, a far happier one and if Moran's name and the supposed good deeds of his old life are soon forgotten, eclipsed by Moriarty's name and reputation, so be it. This, it seems to him, is exactly how things should be.

 


	7. Sleeping in their lover's clothes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleeping in their lover's clothes requested by carmilla-ashworth

Moriarty regards Moran with a raised eyebrow as the Colonel stands before him, clothed but barefoot, holding his muddy boots in one hand. “You're filthy,” he says.

Moran does not trouble to point out how needless this statement is nor that he was only trying to carry out the Professor's orders and it wasn't his fault he ended up having to spend most of the night in a ditch. He only looks rather ashamed as he glances down at his mud-stained clothes. “Sorry.” He scratches his chin, causing a few flakes of dried mud to drift out of his beard. “Didn't know where else to go, not in this state.”

“You will damage my good name here if you make a habit of turning up like this.” Moriarty sighs. Moran's not-infrequent presence around the university is largely tolerated but his associates will surely draw the line somewhere when it comes to what is deemed acceptable. “You will have to wash in there and change into some of my spare clothes. I don't suppose they will fit you too well but needs must.”

“Right sir.” Moran slinks after the Professor, following him into the next room where there is a washstand bearing a basin and jug of cold water along with a bar of soap and a towel. He sheds his jacket first before beginning to unbutton his waistcoat.

“I'm not sure if those should be washed or simply burned.” Moriarty sniffs disdainfully as Moran removes his clothes, dropping them into a sodden pile on the floor.

“If you're gonna burn them you'll probably want to remove what's in the jacket pocket first,” Moran remarks as he drops his trousers.

Moriarty cannot help but notice that even Moran's underclothes are soaked through. “Do I even want to know why precisely you are so filthy?” he enquires as he gingerly picks up the jacket. Holding it at arm's length, he feels around inside the pockets. He finds Moran's battered silver pocketwatch first, staunchly still ticking on, which he sets down on the side-table. It is the other object he finds that interests him far more though. Wrapped up safely inside a small leather pouch is an exquisite sapphire which flickers as if lit with an internal blue flame as Moriarty briefly holds it up to the light.

“It's a long story,” Moran says.

Moriarty glances from the sapphire to his companion, who is now standing naked before him. Whilst not exactly a sight that is entirely appropriate for this setting, the Professor has seen Moran's naked body on enough other occasions to not be fazed by this. Perhaps he even feels a certain thrill run through him at the sight, a quiver not of sexual desire for Moran but simply at the sense of doing something illicit, no matter how innocuous having this naked man in his rooms actually is.

He slides the jewel back into the pouch and slips this inside his own pocket. “Perhaps later you can tell me all about it then,” he remarks as Moran wipes himself down with the wash-cloth. “I don't suppose you've eaten for some time?”

“No sir.”

Moriarty glances at his own pocketwatch. “I have to go to a class in a few minutes but I shall see if I can find someone to procure you something to eat first.”

Moran half turns to regard Moriarty over his shoulder as he washes himself. “Thank you.”

“It is probably best though if you remain in here until I have finished my class. I'd prefer you not to go wandering about the place.”

“Right sir.”

“Here.” Moriarty drops a bundle of his own clothes onto the seat of the chair. “Hopefully something out of these should fit you at least well enough to keep you from scaring the staff.”

Moran laughs. “There ain't nothing wrong with the naked human body, Professor.”

Moriarty's lips are compressed into a tight line momentarily, as if he is trying to keep back his own mirth. “Many people might beg to differ, Sebastian.”

“Not you though,” Moran says with a grin, to which Moriarty makes no response except to raise his eyebrows meaningfully before he leaves the room.

~

Class over, Moriarty heads back to his rooms. Upon entering his study he deposits the pile of books he is carrying on his desk next to a tea tray. This holds a teapot, now cool and nearly empty, along with plates bearing no more than crumbs and a cup with the merest residue of tea in the bottom. Presumably then Moran has refreshed himself in Moriarty's absence although since he is clearly not in the study and did not appear when Moriarty entered the room, the Professor wonders if Moran has disobeyed his request to remain here.

He has not, of course. Striding through into the next room, Moriarty finds his companion curled up in the armchair, soundly asleep. He is dressed now in one of the Professor's old tweed suits and white shirts, all of which appear too large on him, the fabric bunching up and the cuffs of the sleeves almost covering his hands. It gives off the vague impression of a small boy dressing up in his father's clothes. The look on Moran's face seems serene and that too makes him appear younger somehow. As Moriarty regards him with a faint smile upon his lips, he cannot help feeling a surge of affection for his companion, this man who is so completely devoted to him.

As if aware of the Professor's regard, Moran finally stirs in his sleep. Opening one eye, he looks up at Moriarty. “I'm sorry, I... must have fallen asleep.”

“It's all right.” Moriarty reaches out and tenderly brushes a damp lock of hair off Moran's forehead.

“I didn't get any sleep last night.” Moran opens his other eye and stretches himself. “Didn't mean to fall asleep here though.”

“It doesn't matter.” As Moran hauls himself up from the chair, Moriarty catches his arm and draws him closer. “You looked peaceful,” he says, and the significance of this strikes them both, causing Moran to drop his chin and his face to flush slightly. Moran is not a man who lets his guard down easily. Even when exhausted he will frequently try to push onwards, refusing to yield to his body's craving for rest, trying to be ever alert for danger. That he fell asleep here then suggests that this was one of the few places where he felt safe, and perhaps it was being in the Professor's clothes as well as in his rooms that added to his sense of security.

Moriarty draws his hand down Moran's arm, clasping his hand beneath the shirt cuff and rubbing his thumb over the back of Moran's knuckles. “I am very pleased with you for successfully procuring the _merchandise_ ,” he says. “Even if you did turn up here so thoroughly filthy afterwards.”

“Sorry.” Moran grins wickedly. “Maybe you'll have to punish me for that.”

Moriarty draws him even closer, to say in a low voice in Moran's ear, “I was thinking more of rewarding you.”

Moran pauses a moment, running his tongue over his lower lip. “Why not both?” he says. He darts his gaze sideways to meet the Professor's provocatively.

“Perhaps.” Moriarty smiles warmly. “ _Later._ ”

 


	8. Realizing they’re in love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Realizing they’re in love requested by carmilla-ashworth (who also wanted more ace/aro-centric fic)

In the darkness it is easier – easier to ask questions; easier to give voice to things he would shy away from asking in the light of day, but easier too to let his insecurities and uncertainties that would usually be hidden come to the surface.

“Moran,” he says, and feels his companion stir beside him, sensing rather than fully seeing Moran turn his head to look towards the Professor's face.

“Yes?”

“Do you ever wish that I was... other than how I am?”

“What d'you mean?”

“I mean... do you ever wish that I desired you in the same manner that you desire me? That I had the same innate feelings and instincts that you do?”

Moran shifts slightly again, and Moriarty can make out in the gloom enough to see that the Colonel has turned over to properly regard him. “Course not.”

“But why not?” Moriarty asks. “Surely it would make things easier, less complicated?”

“Easier 'ow?” Moran enquires, before he drops his head to press a kiss to the Professor's throat. The action suggests he does not truly care much about hearing the answer; that it makes no difference to him and his regard for Moriarty, but Moriarty cannot let the matter go so easily.

“If you did not have to tell me what you desired of me. If I had understood far sooner that...” Moriarty hesitates. Even in the dark there are words he cannot bring himself to speak of yet, no matter how close he has become to the Colonel.

Moran too pauses, his face close above the Professor's chest. “Professor,” he says. “If you were different to how you are you wouldn't be you and if you weren't you likely I'd never have come to... to 'ave such regard for you.”

“Some might see me as a challenge to be overcome; a problem to be solved; something broken that requires fixing.”

“Some might, yes, but not me, damn it.” Moran pushes his hair back off his forehead. “Is that why you think I want you? Cos I think you're 'challenging'? Like your acquiescence to my sexual desire for you was some manner of sick prize to be won?” There is a steely edge of fury in his tone, although it is directed more outwards than at the Professor. He knows already that Moriarty would not make such accusations towards him.

“I have never thought that of you, Sebastian,” Moriarty says now. “But there are others who do think that way.”

“They don't matter,” Moran says fiercely.

“Yet surely it would still make things easier if I could feel the same for you as you do for me.”

“No.” Moran rests his cheek against Moriarty's chest. As he settles there any harshness disappears from his voice. “No, Professor. I don't want to change you, not at all.” He feels the rise of the Professor's chest as he draws in a breath, holding it a moment before letting it out in a faint sigh.

Moriarty does not speak for several seconds, uncertain what to say to this. Previously it mattered little to him what others thought of him. Even hatred and contempt for him only amused him or even spurred him on rather than negatively impacting upon him. But this is different, somehow. Somehow what Moran thinks of him matters very much and he is uncertain why or how this happened. For a man who has never truly been intimate with _anyone_ before he rather feels like he is floundering about when it comes to understanding how to proceed and this is not a welcome feeling for a man who prefers to always feel in control. Perhaps what would be easier was if Moran had never come to... to care for him at all. Then perhaps the Professor could have pushed aside his own feelings and maintained a simple, straightforward working relationship with the Colonel.

But... he has come to suspect now that had Moran never expressed his longing for Moriarty as he did, things would have still been far from simple or straightforward. He remembers even in the earlier days of their acquaintance when Moran lay wounded and how seeing the Colonel hurt and so vulnerable had stirred something in him even then, some protective instinct he had never felt so profoundly before. Once he would not precisely have scoffed at the idea of loving someone but rather he would have been almost entirely indifferent to the notion, having previously felt so little towards anyone. Whilst around him other men took wives or occasionally male lovers (even, in some instances, both at once), Professor Moriarty was perfectly content to be alone and focus on his work. Even towards his younger brother he felt more a sense of duty and obligation to protect him from harm and a sort of vague affection for him, rather like perhaps someone might feel towards a not terribly interesting pet, but it was not the same at this – the intense pleasure at being in someone's company with its flip-side of an aching sense of loss when they are not there and that feeling of dread or something perilously close to despair at the thought of letting them down or of them one day leaving him. Is that then what loving someone – truly loving them – means? Moriarty does not know and likely Moran is the only person he is close enough to ask about it, but of course he cannot. Still he is unable to speak of such matters with Moran and he suspects too Moran would prevaricate and dissemble about his own deepest feelings for the Professor if he did dare speak to him of such things, no matter how close they have become.

Moran reaches down, covering Moriarty's hand with his, linking his fingers through Moriarty's, clasping their hands together. “You're all I want,” he says. “I wanted other things from you before, true – kissing you, sleeping with you and that – but I'd never 'ave demanded 'em from you, if you'd not been willing. Same with the sex.”

“You could live without such intimacy?” Moriarty says, a degree of disbelief in the query.

“I'd manage.”

“Yet you seemed unhappy when you believed I was unwilling to give you such things.”

“No, Professor.” Moran squeezes Moriarty's hand gently. “I was unhappy, a little, cos I thought maybe you didn't care for me much at all; that sooner or later you'd probably take a wife for the sake of your respectable career and I'd be cast aside, or you'd find someone who could... stimulate your intellectual curiosity in a way I can't.”

Moriarty considers this for a few seconds. Perhaps it should seem strange that despite their differing desires, Moran too should have such insecurities and doubt that he is enough for the Professor. It does not seem strange to him at all though. Although they are very different men in many ways, they have always been so very alike in others.

“You genuinely believed I might marry some woman?” he asks finally, a small smile playing over his lips.

Moran shrugs slightly. “It crossed my mind, before. You 'ave this respectable front – your academic career, the nice 'ouse, your other more-or-less legal business dealings. A marriage to some _decent_ woman could only have added to that.” The manner in which he emphasises _decent_ conveys his own contempt for such concepts as feminine decency, but he does have a point in raising the matter of a marriage.

“Perhaps so,” Moriarty says, and yet such a thought had never seriously crossed his mind before. There has never been anyone else he could conceive of marrying even for the sake of appearances. “But beneath the surface of my respectable veneer, you are well aware, Sebastian, that I have always preferred to be _indecent_.”

Moran laughs. “Yeah, I reckon you 'ave. Not at all conventional either.”

“Indeed.” Moriarty slides his arm around Moran, drawing him a little closer. Even as he says this though he wonders if this is not in fact very conventional – living so closely with someone; sharing his life, even his bed with them. Although the sex of his partner, and the other portion of their life together – the part that sees them plotting and carrying out various criminal schemes – is, he supposes, very far from being conventional.

“Don't speak any more of me wanting you to change, all right?” Moran says. “I take you as you are; there's nothin' I want to change about you.”

“I would not wish to change you either, my dove,” Moriarty tells him – as close perhaps as he can come to an admission of feelings he is still trying to make sense of and is far from ready to speak of aloud. He kisses Moran gently on the top of his head, a gesture that he has learned seems to especially please Moran, and with his lover snuggled contentedly against him, the Professor closes his eyes.

 


	9. Being their soul mate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being their soul mate requested by carmilla-ashworth and calamityisalve

The idea of 'soul-mates' is absurd. The notion of having some sort of soul-deep, terribly profound bond with one particular person... ridiculous. That the soul – some intangible, indefinable thing, the source of which cannot possibly be located – can have some manner of longing for some like-minded being... what nonsense. Moriarty has always considered such ideas with an indulgent but ironic smile, amused by how silly human beings can be and inwardly scoffing at the idea. He never dismissed the idea that people can become attached to each other, sometimes deeply so (even if he had never developed any real attachment to others himself previously) but when people started to speak of 'souls' or 'matters of the heart' even, that was when his attention would start to wander. The human body is made of bones and organs, tendons, muscles, skin, fibres, fluids. Where is the soul in all of that then? Where does this supposed profound capacity to feel and yearn and care for anyone reside? Within a lump of muscle? Within the brain tissue? Is it inside the eye perhaps? Or is this something actually far more base and only pretending to be something deeper, something residing in the genitals maybe? Moriarty cannot quite suppress a small smile at the thought that certainly he has known men who seemed to think more with their pricks than with their brains.

And yet here he is with all of what he previously thought he knew and understood turned upon its head, and not because of some grand gesture; not with great ceremony; no fireworks; nothing dramatic, just because of the simplest things. Moran coming to meet him from his classes with an umbrella when it unexpectedly rains. Moran grasping when the Professor needs space and quietly slipping off to his own room or out for a walk in order to give him that. Moran seeing when Moriarty needs to relax and unwind and going to run a hot bath for him. Moran being there for him, always, no matter what Moriarty does; no matter what he knows that the Professor is capable of – not sycophantic, not afraid to tell Moriarty when he has something wrong but genuinely supportive of him. Countless more small gestures of respect, affection or thoughtfulness also.

For Moriarty, previously not merely resigned to the idea of being alone but actually perfectly content with that, in itself the idea that Moran has become his near-constant companion is nothing particularly surprising. Other men have servants - valets or butlers or secretaries for example - whom they may become close to and come to rely on in some ways, even becoming very fond of them. But what is surprising is how clearly this is nothing like a mere master and servant relationship. Initially it seemed to be purely a practical thing to move into the same house as Moran; now Moriarty realises though that the idea of living in a house without the Colonel fills him with a seemingly illogical sense of fear. He has not only grown used to the Colonel's presence but come almost to rely upon it, not only depending upon Moran for purely practical matters but also in some emotional way too. There is a sense of warmth in how he thinks of Moran, remembering Moran's acts of kindness, even devotion towards him, but thinking about how he might feel if Moran did some day leave him, that thought leaves him cold.

He glances across at the Colonel who is currently seated upon the sofa reading a newspaper, perfectly content to be in the same room as the Professor without directly interacting with him. He seems completely oblivious to Moriarty's current musings as he turns over a page of the paper.

It occurs to Moriarty, not for the first time, that they have somehow ended up as close as a married couple, or closer even than many men and women legally wed. Many couples, particularly the more wealthy ones, are simply pushed and legally bound together for the sake of building connections; of uniting two powerful families. A business deal then, little more than that. The participants might get along perfectly amicably or may even come to be very fond of each other, but there is surely no profound bond between them. Even the most romantically-minded person would likely be hard-pressed to describe such couples as 'soul-mates'.

But here are two men of differing backgrounds, with differing interests and intellects; of different classes also, living together, eating together, sleeping together (not to mention scheming together), brought together initially because Moran was useful to Moriarty, but clearly it has evolved into something far greater than that. Moriarty trusts Moran. It does still surprise him sometimes the extent to which this is true – that he relies on Moran both professionally and privately in the manner that he does. He has never trusted anyone else so before, yet his trust in Moran runs deeply. _Soul deep_.

“You all right?” Moran asks, looking up from his paper. It appears he noticed that Moriarty seems troubled by something after all.

“Perfectly fine.”

“What you thinking about?”

Moriarty smiles wryly. “Soul-mates.”

Moran narrows his eyes slightly, perplexed to hear the Professor speak of such a matter. “Soul-mates?”

“I thought it was a trite term, once.”

“Once,” Moran says, echoing the word, aware of its significance but not quite daring to turn it into a question, afraid perhaps to ask when this changed, and why.

“I have no idea what a soul is, not really,” Moriarty tells him. “Oh one can claim it is simply the life force of a person, all the processes that happen inside his or her body while they are alive, but that is clearly not what many people mean when they speak of the 'soul'. I am not a religious man, as you know. And I have seen dead bodies; I have seen men cut open; I have watched them die before me even, but I have never seen anything but a bundle of bones and flesh and organs; nothing but the cessation of life, not something spiritual; not something I could confidently call 'a soul'.”

Moran pauses a moment, sensing something more to come. “But?” he says after a few seconds have passed.

“But... that I have even come to contemplate or question the matter...”

“You believe in the soul now?”

“Not exactly, I was simply thinking more about the idea of having a 'soul-mate'.” Moriarty continues to regard Moran's face steadily. “What do you think about the idea of 'soul-mates', Sebastian?” He notes how Moran looks down at once; how his cheeks seem to flush slightly.

“I... I think it's a very nice idea, Professor.”

“But is it a _plausible_ one?”

Moran looks into the fireplace. “Maybe.”

“Do you think that you and I are soul-mates?”

Now Moran looks at him again, and there is a look of such inner torment in his expression. Here is a man who faces having all his hopes and dreams dashed, even mocked by Moriarty, for while he trusts Moriarty too he has been betrayed and hurt too many times before by others to let his guard down easily. He bites his lower lip before he drops his gaze again and answers, quietly, “Yes.” It is several more seconds before he dare lifts his eyes again and looks at Moriarty, who sits there very still and serene. “You think I'm foolish for that.” His face looks very flushed now.

“No.” Moriarty smiles at last. “No, I think that is... fitting.” He pats the space on the seat beside him. “Come here, please.”

Moran eyes him for a moment before setting aside his paper and slinking over to sit beside the Professor. Moriarty turns to face him, considering him for some seconds, studying him as if looking for something very particular about him. Moran is not sure whether the Professor has found whatever it is he seeks or not when Moriarty reaches over and clasps his hand. Only then, as Moriarty gently takes Moran's hand in his, does the Colonel relax, at last letting himself believe that the Professor is not going to mock him nor insult him nor reject him; that he is entirely sincere.

Moriarty smiles still as he leans over and places a light kiss to Moran's cheek. “Soul-mate,” he says.

 


End file.
